Thank you to mckydstarlight, Wonderfullymade139, and the guest for reviewing the last chapter.

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Sherlock cleared his throat, "Molly, for the past week, I have been intently trying decide whether or not I could ever be able to retain the full use of my mind, while giving into some of the more...pleasurable urges of the body," he took her blush to be incentive enough to continue, "I have come to ask you to assist me in a simple task."

Molly tilted her head in confusion, "What do you need, Sherlock?"

Sherlock bit his lip when he remembered another time she had said that to him. She really had done so much for him. Perhaps he would someday be able to express to her just how grateful he was.

"I..." He looked down at his feet, "Hang on," he said, while pulling his arms from behind his back, "John told me to bring this to you."

Molly eyed the heart-shaped box of candy that he handed her suspiciously.

"Are they poisoned?" She asked.

"What? No! No!" He repeated emphatically.

Yes, I should definitely plot John's murder when I return home.

If I return home. It would be more practical to have Molly keep me here for the night. It seems the logical way to run an experiment like this.

Molly carefully removed the lid from the box, and examined each piece in turn.

"Are you absolutely sure, Sherlock?"

He let out an exasperated sigh, and ran a hand through his curls, "Molly, why on earth would John tell me to bring you poisoned chocolates?"

She cocked her eyebrows, still eyeing the candies, "Well..." She began, trying to think of a reason, "Wait, why did John tell you to bring me chocolates in the first place?"

"Ah," he began, "That would be so I could ease my way into asking your help in enacting my brilliant scheme."

"Brilliant...Scheme?" Molly finally looked up at her interlocutor.

Sherlock smiled, "Yes, you see, I find myself ever so steadily growing an urge to engage in, what a lesser mind would consider, romantic encounters."

The edges of Molly's lips turned down, "And I'm supposed to help you with that, how?" She drew out the last word of her sentence.

"I thought I could run an experiment," he said, blatantly ignoring the advice Mary had given him, "By having you help me solve my case, while engaging in...said romantic encounters."

He had expected her to be pleased. He had just asked her to make love to him. Well, in a round about way.

She took a moment to process what he had just asked her. He was expecting her to ponder the question for a few seconds, immediately recognize its brilliance, and assent gladly.

He was shocked when he saw her eyes start to tear up.

"An...experiment?" she whispered.

Sherlock crinkled his brow, but tried to retain a calm exterior, "Yes. Does that displease you somehow?"

"I was right, Sherlock..." She paused to sniffle a bit, "I was right, wasn't I?"

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes at her seemingly unprompted display of emotion, "Right about what, Molly? I do wish you would just answer my proposal."

She glared at him, "It was all just some perverse little experiment on human libido. Just something you could get off on for awhile, until you decided you had no use for me anymore."

"What are you talking about?" He asked, too annoyed by her refusal to answer his question to realize what she was obviously referring to.

"You used me," she managed to choke out, "All that time ago, in my flat," the words triggered the memories in Sherlock's head, "You used me so you could make yourself feel good. You kept me around while I made you feel good about yourself, and the moment that feeling left, so did you."

Years' worth of repressed emotions started to flow from her heart all at once.

Not even Sherlock was unmoved by her display.

She does think I'm awful, he thought, as, though he would not admit it, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

And he knew that she was right to feel that way, too. He had given her every reason to believe that her statement was true. He could barely admit to himself, much less to her, the real reason he had left.

She shook her head in frustration, "You know, Tom was right about you, too. He said...he told me..." She was unable to finish her statement, but Sherlock could think of plenty of ways to fill in the blanks. She had a particular way of saying that man's name that made his skin crawl.

"Oh, Tom," he spat out.

Molly inhaled sharply, "Yes, Sherlock, Tom. Tom the man I used to be engaged to. Tom the man I used to love more than anything, the one man I thought could get me as close to being happy as I could have been without you and your perverse 'experiments' showing up at my door. The same man who left me when he deduced," she said the word bitterly, "That I was in love with another man!"

Sherlock drew his head back slightly, "I'm sorry, Molly, I didn't know."

"Oh, really?" she asked sarcastically, "The great consulting detective couldn't figure out something as obvious as that?" She threw the box of chocolates he had brought at his feet, "Take your chocolates, and your brilliant schemes, and you experiments, and please just leave me alone." Her last sentence held no trace of bitterness. She was pleading with him to go.

He turned the way he had come and left without trying to comfort Molly, or uttering another word.

Molly laid on her bed and buried her face in her hands. She didn't cry. She refused to cry.

She knew, she knew, all along that everything he ever did with her was a terrible experiment. She told herself that over and over again.

The difference was that before, she had told herself it was all an experiment to comfort herself. If she could believe that she never had his love in the first place, then there would not have been much lost when he left her afterwards. Now that he himself had confirmed it, she no longer found the idea to be so comforting.

Was it so wrong to have hoped she could make Sherlock Holmes love her?

Sherlock never left her building. He paced up and down the hall, he walked countless flights of steps...he did everything but leave. Strangely enough, he did not want to leave Molly Hooper. He could not understand. Every time he pictured he, he felt a stab of pain to his chest, and he knew it would only be exacerbated by his putting distance between himself and Molly.

She's right, you know, he argued with himself.

Why shouldn't she be? You never told her how much you...How much you...

Do I love Molly Hooper?

If he did, he had certainly never let himself believe it before. But he had relied on Molly so many times throughout his life, and, ironically, his death. He trusted her. He would even say that he respected her. He knew she was more clever than she ever let on, and more intelligent than he allowed himself to see.

Could all of that add up to love?

No.

There was one thing he was missing. One thing so blatantly obvious that he would have hit himself right on the spot, if he had thought it necessary.

His experiment was not really an experiment at all. It was nothing of the sort, and he knew it. It was a romantic attachment cleverly disguised as a scientific endeavor. He had almost fooled himself into believing it. It was fairly obvious that Molly believed it already.

Oh, what a complete and utter jackass I've been.

He sat down on the stairs he had been climbing.

You cannot allow yourself to be blinded by chemicals and hormones.

Maybe I want to be blinded.

Sherlock's mind was never at ease. It raced out of control. He had resorted to extremes to try and get it to slow down if even for a second. Oddly enough, being close to Molly calmed his thoughts. He wanted to be by her.

You may have just ruined your chances to ever be by her again.

Sherlock knew what it was he had to do, and he did not need to consult John this time.